


One Shot: Weekend Chores

by brownskinsugarplum76



Category: Iggy Pop (Musician), Rock Music RPF, The Stooges (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Ass Play, Berlin (City), Cat Ears, Collars, Domestic, Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Ejaculation, House Cleaning, Large Cock, Light Choking, Light Dom/sub, Light Spanking, Love Bites, Nerdiness, Nudity, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Vaginal Fingering, deep voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownskinsugarplum76/pseuds/brownskinsugarplum76
Summary: It's 1977 in Berlin. Iggy (going by his real name, Jim, in the story) and you share an apartment and have a fun ritual for Saturday mornings...
Relationships: Iggy Pop and Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	One Shot: Weekend Chores

It’s Saturday morning, cleaning time for you. Jim has just wiped the lenses of his wire-frame glasses. He reaches for the weekend newspaper, crosses his legs, and prepares to read.  
Both of you are in your usual places for the start of the weekend. You like to wear something provocative to put on a show for him while you clean, and today it’s black cat ears and a studded pet collar, along with your favorite black lace bra and a black thong. He has helped complete your outfit, inserting the plug that leaves a black cat tail hanging suggestively from the entrance to your ass.  
He has left behind many of the darkest bits of Iggy Pop from earlier in the decade and is now in what he jokingly refers to as his “normal man” phase, but it's in appearance only, because the uncontrollable, sexy wild man is just below the surface at all times. He's wearing a tennis sweater and jeans, feet bare, as always. His hair is back to its natural darker color, slicked into his best Brylcreem professional man imitation. The short haircut accentuates his angular, masculine face, and the shine of his large, childlike blue eyes is not thwarted by the oversized glasses.  
The oddness of the scene turns you on every weekend--Jim, in the role of a fiercely middle-class man savoring every second of mundane activity on a weekend morning, and you, vamping seductively in costume and character. You know it turns him on, too--there have been Saturdays when he’s had to have you and you didn’t get to finish your cleaning--but he always plays nonchalant at first. It’s unnerving how he can turn off his normal chaos cartoon character personality for this indifferent mask of respectability. You know he has considered taking acting classes, and you're confident he'd ace that kind of work.  
You make sure to have your back to him as much as possible, as part of the show. You water the ferns and African violets first, then you vacuum the beige carpet in the living room. It doesn’t take much time in the modest Berlin apartment that the two of you share.  
When you’re directly in front of him, vacuuming near the coffee table, he rests the newspaper in his lap, palms your ass with one hand, and grabs his coffee with the other for a sip. The way he kneads you causes you to flash back to the feel of his hands on your ass earlier, when he slicked your asshole down with lube and, with the caress of a sinfully teasing finger, prepared you for the plug, if not for his slow, light-handed thrusting with the toy. His unexpected motions caused your hips to buck some more, after you were already on your back, flushed and wet from his expert tongue moments earlier in your pussy. You were close to coming again while he played with your smaller opening, but he said you'd have to wait.  
You inhale sharply, enjoying the sexy memory and the feel of Jim’s warm hand on your ass right now.  
“I believe there’s more to do, dollface, isn’t there?” He chides you gently with the low rumble of his unmistakably Midwestern accent. He spanks you swiftly. You turn to look at him for a moment and see a momentary flash of mischief in his eyes accompanying his shy smile. “Off you go,” he says. Then, it’s back to the newspaper.  
You finish vacuuming and put the appliance back in the bedroom closet. You make a detour to the bathroom for cleaning supplies and then begin wiping all the glass down in the living room. First it’s the television, then the end tables and the coffee table. Jim hums Frank Sinatra tunes the whole time, and it excites you to feel like you’re in some twisted Norman Rockwell painting of the 1950s. But the year is 1977, and your game is certainly not beyond the pale in a place like Berlin.  
Jim has finished his coffee and takes the mug to the kitchen. While he’s gone, you turn your cleaning attention to the large window at the side of the sofa. You can’t help but start humming Sinatra.  
“You missed a spot,” Jim says of your window cleaning. You turn and see him peering at you from the kitchen. You know by the way he licks his lips that he is ramping up the game. You resume your work, and your lips swell furiously between your thighs in anticipation.  
“Show me where you mean?” You call out once you’re facing the window again, playing along.  
“One moment, sweetheart,” he calls back in a singsong tone.  
You hear his brisk shuffle on the carpet. Once you see his reflection in the window you know that playtime is over. You can’t help but grin when you see his nude body: the lean lines and pops of muscles on his lithe frame, punctuated by the arresting sight of his thick cock. You’re surprised he kept his clothes on for that long. You feel flushed, but you get back to the task at hand, struggling to stay in character at this point.  
His reflection makes a beeline for you.  
He presses your body into the window with his. You gasp at the feel of the glass against your skin; it’s winter, and you imagine the window feels every bit as cold as it does outside.“Right here,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing to a random spot on the glass, pressing in closer on you. You are now soaked at your core, feeling his lips a hair’s width from your ear and his virile, low voice employed.  
“Thank you for pointing that out, dear.” You can’t help phrasing your response this way, as you feel his hardness against you. He knows exactly what you mean.  
He wages a silken assault on your neck with his soft kisses. He hums while he does it, and the vibrations and the undeniable masculinity of his tone edge you closer to the point of no return.  
He turns you around, taking in the view of your body, gliding his large hands over you in a way he knows is never enough. He tosses his glasses on the sofa and gives you one of his provocative, model-perfect stares before he starts to remove your clothes.  
He told you that a few years earlier, someone called him a degenerate with the body of a water polo player. You can see some after-effects of his strung-out, desperate years in his face, but now, during his tenuous recovery, he seems more settled and grounded than the man he's described to you. The man before you is calm, confident, and knowing, and has been head over heels for you, in his own understated way, for the past year.  
He smiles. He's ready to devour you. He backs you against the window. He pins you to the spot. Your body rears and arches against the glass as his love bites at your neck and his fingering of your core send you to a place of wantonness. You gasp when his thumb hits your clit, easily gliding over the slick area. He grasps your neck softly with his other hand and kisses you deeply while his contact with your bud becomes more firm.  
You tremble against the glass, and moans escape your mouth around his tongue. His dangerous bouts with asthma may have made him small, but he’s certainly as strong as larger men. He grips your neck a little tighter when he knows your climax is near. You’re shaking so much that you’re almost worried about the strength of the glass behind you.  
“There’s my girl,” he growls and leers with his perfect smile. His eyes are wide and piercing on you; it’s one of the wild, defiant looks you’ve seen on his face in photos from the earlier concerts.  
“Come for me… Come for me…” He chants in a husky whisper. Your sense of being expands at an alarming rate, while you tighten exquisitely at your core.  
“Come for me…”  
Your body feels like it’s going to burst.  
“Come for me...”  
You wail and keen. You can’t get enough air. You can’t get enough of the paralyzing euphoria that you’re in.  
“Come for me…” You’re trapped in a divine loop of tension that ratchets higher, higher, higher. It feels wrong to call this extreme pleasure misery, but your nerves are going raw from the throbbing at your core, from his grip on you, his cold stare, the cold, hard glass, the thought of enterprising Germans going out into the sunny morning on the street below for the newspaper or a warm breakfast.  
It’s too much. You explode inside. You tremble. You howl. Seconds later, your legs are doused with the warm rain of your completion.  
You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop your rapid breaths. Jim cups your face with his hands and kisses you as tenderly as he did when the two of you woke up earlier. He gives you his shy smile and embraces you tightly. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re beautiful.” His compliment makes you higher than you already are from his ministrations.  
He tugs a bit at your cat tail and leers at you again. “Come on, pussy… cat… There’s more of that for you in the bedroom.”


End file.
